


Falling

by JonquilB



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Café, Definitely a darker take on the Priest, Episode Related, Extended Scene, F/M, Oral Sex, Priest POV, S2E5, Snogging, Teasing, Temptation, Vaginal Sex, coconut oil, parklife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-02-10 09:49:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18657994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonquilB/pseuds/JonquilB
Summary: The Priest is full of contradictions, relying on the Church's structure to keep himself disciplined. What happens when he finally starts to realise it's not working anymore?Takes place from S2 E5 and picks up a few months after the "final" meeting at the bus stop after the wedding.





	1. Chapter 1

I hadn’t intended to see her again at all. 

When I’d seen her at the bus stop earlier, I’d told her to stay the hell away from me and from everything even vaguely connected to me. I've got too much baggage to think we'd be able to just carry on as if the confessional hadn't happened. And that had seemed like a grand idea, until I realised I really, absolutely couldn’t let a wedding couple down just because I've been acting like a complete arsehole. And then the thought of trying to avoid looking her in the eye throughout the entire fucking wedding ceremony was pretty awful, too. So I decided that I owe her a proper explanation, or at least an apology, and then we could wipe the slate clean.

I could have phoned her, of course. When I saw her sister at the house after I’d apologised to the happy couple and confirmed we were all going ahead as planned, I could have just asked for her number. But instead I found myself asking if she lived nearby, and if it would be possible for me to drop by in person to tell her about the change of plan. Claire’s face was inscrutable as she forwarded the contact details on her phone. For a moment I thought she was looking at me a little sharply, but maybe it was just because the light was low and she looked so different with her new hair.

On the bus on the way there, I started thinking about what I would say. I thought about it on the walk from the stop to her door, even as it started to rain. And as I stood outside, for some reason I found myself bizarrely worried about my hair, so I ended up running my hands through it for a minute or so before screwing up the courage to ring the bell.

She answered almost immediately, wrapped in her short black coat and fully made up as though she’d been about to go out. She was clearly surprised to see me, though she didn’t hesitate to let me in.

Once I was actually standing in her sitting room - in _her space_ \- I started floundering a bit. The room was cozy and full of secondhand furniture and books. As I hovered uncertainly, I found myself glancing surreptitiously at her. She says she has the coat on because she’s cold, but her feet are bare. That seems… odd.

She still looks like a silver screen siren though, with her thickly lashed eyes and come-hither red mouth. But I’ve decided not to think about that.

I turn down her offer of a drink and resolutely decide to get on with my speech. Almost immediately though, the buzzer goes. She makes it clear that she wants to ignore it, so I settle on her sofa and try to keep going.

“When I was a child...” there it goes again, like a persistent wasp. Clearly flustered, she jumps up, apologising and leaving me on her sofa with my mouthful of explanations. As she speaks to the man outside - someone she was obviously planning to see before I interrupted her evening - I get this awful, churning sensation somewhere between my lungs and stomach. She’s telling him…yes, she’s definitely telling him he’s a great shag. Christ. I don’t want to think about what I’ve interrupted, but here I am thinking of it anyway. And not for the first time, to be completely fucking honest.

She’s back, still smiling bravely as though spurning lovers on her threshold is a perfectly normal event. Perhaps for her it is. I rise to my feet, planning to say what I need to and then making my exit, but somehow the words that emerge are:

“ _Nine_ times?”

“I had to get rid of him,” she responds crisply. And then - since the subject has now come up, and is hanging thickly between us - my previously planned speech evaporates and I launch straight into explaining why I can’t have sex with her.

Only the problem is that now it’s all I’m thinking about.

She argues back, but a couple of times she zones out on me again while I’m making my excuses, and the anger I feel about it surprises me. For fuck’s sake, I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff and pouring my heart out like she’s taking my confession, and she’s not even giving me her full damned attention?

And that’s when it really hits me. 

I _want_ her full attention. God help me, I want it. 

I want her as focussed on me as I am on her. I want to do whatever I have to do to keep her connected with me, answering me, responding to me. I want to do something about this roiling lump of pure jealousy that sprang up in my chest when I heard her telling that fucker how he’d made her come. I want to strip her clothes off and obliterate every memory she has of him. I want to actually see her tits instead of just thinking about them. I want to see her face when she comes. I want _her._ And I don't want to leave this room without having her.

So I finally admit it out loud. All my protests come down to the fact that from the moment I kissed her in the confessional, I knew we were going to end up here. “We’re going to have sex, aren’t we?” 

She is regarding me calmly and seriously, and her eyes are so large and dark I feel like I am about to fall into them. She nods. “Yeah.”

Take a breath. _Oh my God._

“Yeah. Okay.” Stepping out over the precipice. I am terrified, and excited. I haven't done this since... well, a long time. 

When I cross over to her, I don’t quite know what I was expecting to find under her short black trench. The bare feet and endless glistening legs should have been a clue, but it’s been a while since I’ve undressed anyone and I just didn’t pick up on it. So when I pull the knot on the belt free and the coat falls open to reveal just lacy underwear and acres of smoothly gleaming bare skin I’m left momentary speechless. She looks… she looks better than I’d even imagined. A hot shiver runs up the back of my neck and I’m really not sure how to start.

She looks embarrassed, and I realise she thinks I’m judging her. I shush her apologies and shake my head at her, still unable to speak but desperate to let her know that I'm really no-one to judge (she has no idea, honestly) and I’m far, far past the point of doubting what’s about to happen.

When she kisses me, I feel a surge of lust so profound that my performance anxiety melts away and I start kissing her like I’m drowning in her. I manage to keep my hands cupped gently around her beautiful face for a respectable few minutes before I push the coat off her shoulders and run them down her back and up the length of her smooth, flat belly. She feels incredible. I break off mid-kiss to murmur,

“You know how you asked the other day if thinking about your tits was disturbing my peace?” She nods, lips still parted from my tongue, “…well, I’ve thinking about them a lot longer than that.” It feels good to finally admit it. My hands find her breasts then, then start pulling at her bra straps so I can get at them better.

She’s clearly pleased. “Oh really, Father?” God, I hate how hearing her use my honorific gets under my skin. She’s not the only one getting off on it, I’m ashamed to admit.

“They were pretty fucking hard to miss in that jumpsuit. The one slashed to your waist.” The contrast between her high, austere neckline and all that exposed skin had been pretty arresting. That and her terse watchfulness at the table, until that miscarriage announcement out of the blue made the whole mad evening explode around us.

That makes her laugh. “What? Right when we first met?”

“Well not immediately the instant we were introduced, no. It was when I followed you out for a fag.” The sight of her, braced against the wall with her head back exhaling a thin trail of smoke, looking like some sort of vintage pinup, pulled at me in ways I’d not experienced for a long time. It had been easy to bury it in trying help her - she clearly needs someone to talk to - but really when the banter had started tipping over into outright flirting I ought to have stopped it there. Actually no, before that. The rush I felt when I saw her in the pews was another early warning sign, but I’d ignored that too. 

“Well, Freud would say that smoking makes people think of oral sex, Father,” her teasing, vampy smirk is making my pulse hammer as she reaches down to undo my belt and trousers. She frees my erection quickly and expertly, like she’s done it many times before - well, let’s be honest, she likely has - and then she strokes the length of me slowly and gently, her lips parted moistly as she watches my face, a question written in her eyes.

I answer it by leaning in for a kiss, which she only accepts for a moment before breaking away and sliding down to her knees. I feel my breath catch and my abdominal muscles clench in primal anticipation. She looks up, still holding and gently stroking my desperately excited cock with her fingertips, and then without breaking eye contact she leans forward, licks the tip slowly and deliberately, and then takes me into her mouth.

The sensation of her tongue rubbing along the entire underside of my cock as she pushes her mouth down makes every hair on my body stand on end. As she slides back to do it again, I wind my fingers in her hair and gasp, 

“Slow... slow... I haven’t done this in a _long_ time.” She pulls off completely, making a bit of a show of it. The fucking minx.

“Oh don’t worry Father, I’ll make sure you don’t come until I want you to.”

_Jesus._ “You’d better not say things like that then, because that nearly did it.” 

I have to take back some initiative or this is going to end way, way too soon.

I grab her wrists and pull her back up again, to her evident confusion. “Wait, wait,” I murmur to her between a few more short kisses, slipping my shoes off while I think.

Oh. I know.

I push her down onto her sofa and kneel before her. I was planning to push her knees apart, but from the moment her arse hits the cushion she works out what I’m thinking and spreads them for me, shuffling down a bit to offer a better angle. As she raises her arms above her head, stretching languidly and with sensual anticipation, she smiles down at me: “Let me know if you need me to do anything up here, Father.” But I am too transfixed to answer.

_Okay._

I slip a finger under her knickers and gently pull them aside, then run my thumb first over and then between her labia, gently probing my way up through her folds until I’ve found her clit nestled out of sight. Jesus, she’s wet. I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s nearly unbearably aroused by all this. I rub her slowly and deliberately until I’ve got her uniformly slippery, and then I pull her knickers down and reach under her hips with both arms, forcibly tipping her entire pelvis up towards me. As she sighs in anticipation, I dip my head and bury my tongue in her cunt.

The taste of her - clean, salty, smelling strongly of coconut for some reason - takes me way back to a _very_ different stage in my life. As I lick and suck and grind my tongue over her clit, I’m dimly aware that she’s wrapped her hands behind my head and is making the most gorgeous, uninhibited sounds. I’m not sure how many times I make her come, but it’s definitely a competitive performance. I realise that I'm shamefully proud that I've not forgotten absolutely _everything_ since entering seminary. 

I’m prepared to keep going for hours - it keeps the focus off me and puts it somewhere I’m much more comfortable - but sometime after yet another shuddering, moaning orgasm she pulls my head up and demands, 

“I really, really want you to fuck me now. _Please._ ” Her eyes have gone hazy and her pale, gleaming skin is flushed all over. Well, it's not like I'm going to refuse now. This freight train isn't stopping anytime soon. I let her pull the tab out of my dog collar and help her unbutton my shirt. I do insist on us taking all our clothes off before we head for the bedroom, though. Both of us being completely naked somehow seems right.

After all the build up, when we finally climb into her bed I am not really minded to try anything especially fancy. We spend a bit more time kissing - I've really missed it, I don't think I'd appreciated just how much - and then I roll her onto her back and press myself over her, holding her face between my hands and entering her as slowly and luxuriously as her outrageous wetness allows.

When I’m fully embraced by her at last, I pause to kiss her as deeply as I can, our breathing harmonising as her long, elegant legs wrap about my waist and hug me tighter into her. I can’t hold back for long, though. I have to start moving, and when I do I know that nothing of this earth could ever get me to stop. Her purrs and sighs are intoxicating, and at some point I realise, my head nestled on the pillow beside hers and my face pressed against her neck, that I’ve been groaning uncontrollably and our rhythm is inexorably speeding up. 

When I’m about to come, I pull myself up suddenly over her so I can see her face when it happens. Her eyes are wide and curiously soft, all teasing and banter stripped away so I am left staring straight into her, at all the suppressed pain and grief she’s been holding onto for as long as I’ve known her. She starts to close her eyes, and then as my orgasm starts to rip through me she doesn’t. Instead she holds them open, watching me lose myself in her, lose my vows, lose my vocation, lose everything in a glorious, sweaty rush.

After, we lie lazily entangled for the rest of the night, alternately dozing and then waking to talk and have sex again. We find all sorts of positions we’d missed the first time - I’m not really sure where the stamina's come from, whether it’s just been held in reserve in me, or is just excited by all the newness, until at last, sometime in the early hours when the sun is not far off threatening to rise, we crash out completely with me still spooned around her, gradually subsiding. 

As I finally fall deeply asleep, the last clear thought I have is: 

_Oh fucking hell. Last night I was intending to write the fucking homily._


	2. Chapter 2

Urban heat island - I think that’s what this effect on London is called. This oppressive heat shimmer radiating off the concrete buildings and asphalt streets as the fucking sun beats down on me and my relentlessly black clothes. Well whatever it’s called, it’s made doing my rounds bloody uncomfortable. I can actually feel sweat trickling between my shoulder blades. That’s been July and August all over this year: one long, grinding heat wave, laying my older parishioners low so many of them have stopped attending. I’ve definitely noticed the impact on my requested home visits. Lots of elderly people still want to take the sacrament, so I've taken it on myself to get it to them. It’s been taking a bloody lot out of me though, all this travelling round the city in the afternoon heat in a high collar and black suit. Between that and my sunglasses, I’m a little concerned I look like some sort of long lost clerical Man In Black.

For the past few months though, I’ve been extra dedicated to my flock. Going the extra mile to look after everyone and keep them on the righteous path has been front and centre of mind for me, ever since I crashed out of my vows one glorious, sweaty night and I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. And I’ve been mostly very successful. During the day when my parishioners are about and I’m dressed clerically, I feel righteous and devout - like a dieter proudly discovering he can turn down pastries, after all. 

Night times are another matter, though. The dreams… God help me, the dreams are _something else._

Strong sunlight bouncing off cars and glinting off windows isn’t helping me deal with the heat or my ongoing sleep issues, either. I cross the street with the traffic lights, and I can’t help but let my gaze be drawn through the gates of the local park on the other side. I can see a long, flat stretch of velvety green lawn, some coolly shadowed trees, and the distant sparkle of a pond. The water is what finally does it for me. I’m not exactly planning to roll up my trousers and attempt some priestly wading - though God knows some people would find it amusing, and I’d probably be all over social media by nightfall - but the looking at it from the shade would be nice. Just getting away from all the damned concrete for a bit will be fucking brilliant.

The park is fairly busy for a Monday afternoon. People all clustered all over the grass, sunbathing or playing ball games or just sitting and chatting. The path is narrow and, typically, split into cycle and pedestrian lanes. No-one is paying a blind bit of attention to which lane they’re in, though. I have to dodge a couple of skateboarders and step aside for a group of pram-pushing mums, and at one point turn a blind eye to a group of shrieking teens smoking what smells unmistakably like ganja. I also return a few friendly greetings from random passers-by (the collar can have that effect), but as the pond draws closer I can feel myself starting to relax. Really, it won’t hurt if I just stop and take my jacket off for a while. I’ve not allowed myself to be really, properly off duty since that damned wedding.

Off to my right, a ways off from the path, a woman laughs and shouts, “Oh you bastard, fuck you! I told you I hadn’t brought a change of clothes!” 

Oh Jesus. Right on cue. I know that voice. I doesn’t have to look to recognise who it is, but I do anyway. I can’t not. 

She’s standing with her back to me, barefoot near a picnic blanket and wearing a truly tiny pair of denim shorts that display her endless legs to optimum advantage. She’s wearing a white T-shirt that’s clinging to her in a way that suggests it may not be entirely dry - an impression backed up by the way she’s clutching her arms over her chest. Nearby, a small, mixed group of men and women are lolling on the rug and laughing along with her, and one of the men is waving what looks like an empty water bottle. He’s got a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

See? I told her it would pass. She looks absolutely fucking _fine_ and it’s only been a couple of months.

As I watch, she turns and shakes some water out of her hair, then runs her hands through it. The movement makes her arch her back and pushes her arse out towards me.

Jesus Christ, I really need to get a hold of myself. 

There’s a bench overlooking the water in the shade, and so I decide to head for it and sit down with my back to her. When I reach it, I pull the tab out of my collar and pop a couple of buttons open. It helps a lot. Now to ditch the jacket and roll my sleeves up. Losing a few layers is definitely the right decision. I can’t hold back a soft groan as I plop down on the bench and stretch my legs out. I could really use a can of cold drink, preferably against the back of my neck. I let my head fall back and close my eyes.

I’ve been sitting like that for around ten minutes before a shadow falls over me.

“Hello, Father. Long time, no see.”

I crack my eyes open under my dark glasses and turn my head towards her. She’s settling herself on the other end of my bench, all long, tanned limbs and easy smile. Her T-shirt is clearly damp, but not as sheer as I’d antici... er, feared. The bottle’s spray seems to have caught the side of her head and front of one shoulder, leaving a translucent patch that allows me to clearly make out the lacy top of her bra. A few droplets are clinging to her dark curls and have trickled down her neck. They remind me that I’m really quite thirsty.

“Hi.” For a moment I flounder, with not a single intelligent thing in my head. Then I manage to blurt out, “Still staying out of trouble?”

He eyebrows lift slightly. “Yep, still not arrested. Though I’m not sure why you’re expecting that, Father. I’m a reformed woman, you know.”

She doesn’t look very fucking reformed. God, why does she make me feel so skittish? My breath is quickening. “Does that mean you’ve not hit anyone lately, or are you just getting really good at ducking and diving?”

“Bit of both, probably.” She grins at me in that arch way that suggests she’s having a great time and is more than happy to take people along for the ride. I can feel myself wanting to move down the bench towards her in response. “So how’s church business, Father? Still looking after the newly wed and nearly dead?” As comments go, it’s pretty innocuous. But there’s something in her tone that makes a firmly buried part of me sit up and take notice.

“Don’t call me Father like that. I know what you’re thinking.” Jesus, I can’t believe I’ve just said that out loud. 

“Oh do you really? What exactly is that, then?” She sounds amused, and even a little... triumphant? I have to say it’s taking some effort for me to stay focussed on her face. I’m glad I’m wearing dark sunglasses, as I seem to be having trouble dragging my eyes away from that soaked spot on her top. Come to think of it, I can actually see a bit more of her bra and the shape of her breasts than I’d first realised.

I open my mouth and find I don’t actually have anything reasonable to say. She looks at me, gaping stupidly at her, and openly smirks.

“I think maybe you’re projecting a bit, Father. While we’re on the topic, do you also want to know if I think about you when I wank? And how often?”

Oh my God. I didn’t think it was possible, but my mouth has gone even drier. “That’s not fair.”

She schools her face into a more solemn expression, but the corners of her mouth twitch. “Well, never mind then, Father. Though if you find you’re thinking about it too much, I’m sure you remember where I live.” She gets up again, turning back to her friends. “Nice to see you again,” she throws insolently over her shoulder. I find myself watching her arse sway as she moves off, suddenly aware of my sweating palms and of feeling even warmer than I had when I’d originally sat down.

Well, fuck. So much for a quick relax in the park.

********

So the problem is, I do indeed remember where she lives. I remember how to get there, and everything else that happened the one time I dropped by. I've been trying to push it out of my head for weeks.

I’d gone back to the rectory, eaten, prepared the next day’s midweek service, got ready for bed, read for a bit, and then turned out the light all before 10pm. And then I lay there for ninety fucking minutes, sweating. Part of me wanted to blame the weather, but I was all too aware that I was thinking about her, and not just from the glimpse I’d had today. No, I was remembering the last time I’d tracked her down in her flat, and what had happened. I was thinking about pulling the little shorts she’d been wearing today down and licking my way all the way up those long legs until... oh fuck, and then thinking about the sounds she'd made.

It's heading for midnight now. Fuck. 

The tension in my groin, reawakened after I’d successfully crammed it down again, is going to drive me fucking insane. I slide a hand down my belly and, for a few minutes, consider the value of self-abuse. But then I change my mind.

By time I admit to myself what I’m doing, I’m already up, dressed in jeans and an old tee, and heading out into the softly humid night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Priest. I just can't leave him alone.


	3. Chapter 3

I manage to keep my brain parked right up to the point that I’m actually standing in front of her door. It’s only when I’m looking at the paint peeling around the doorbell and remembering the last time I was here that I realise my hands are trembling slightly.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What am I fucking _doing?_

The last time I was here, I had an entirely innocent reason for turning up at her door late at night, at a time when any non-celibate person could possibly be expecting a booty call to turn up. As indeed one had, a few minutes after I settled on her sofa. 

Of course my motivation for seeing her then had been to warn her that I was going to do the ceremony the following day, and to make sure she understood that I was only changing my mind about that, and nothing else. But I was lying to myself, really. I could have just sent her a text, but no... I’d wanted to see her.

And here I am again. Not even a fig leaf of an excuse for why I’m here this time. Just... I know where she lives. And I want to see her. 

I take a deep breath. _Here goes._

I have to ring three times before she answers. When she finally opens the door, she’s dressed in a ridiculously short robe and her dark hair is rumpled. She looks appealingly like a woman who’s come straight from bed.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” My voice sounds so innocent, like I’m not drinking in the sight of her like a long, cool draught. She tilts her head and regards me appraisingly.

“You could say that, Father. Bit late for you, isn’t it?”

“Well, I was up...” best not to dwell on that, “…ah, can I come in?” I see her hesitate and feel my stomach tighten. “Sorry... are you not alone?”

“No, no, it’s just me tonight.” There’s a sudden quirk to her lip. She opens the door a bit wider, then grins broadly. “Hurry Father, you don’t want someone happening by and recognising you.” Her eyes have a wicked glint.

My gut tightens. I look at her - tousled and inviting, in her little robe barely caught with a silky knot at her waist - take a deep breath, and step over the threshold.

I’m facing away from her as the door clicks shut behind me. Her sitting room looks much the same as it did a few months ago, only now I’m looking at it with quite a different perspective. I am acutely aware that I’m mentally choreographing us over her furniture in a way I that I _definitely_ didn’t let myself do last time.

“So, can I get you a drink of anything...?” Ever the polite middle class girl, even as she’s steadily reeling me in. I don’t have the patience for niceties at the moment, though. Not now. I’ve spent sodding weeks doing my plaster saint act, all the while trying to stuff down the memories of her quips and our flirty debates and especially the feeling of our bodies melting into each other. It’s all bubbling up so fiercely now I can’t seem to find any sensible words. All I know is I’ve only got one thing on my mind now, and it’s driven me out of my bed to her on a Monday night. 

So I turn, wordlessly take her face in my hands, and start kissing her ravenously. No build up, no hesitancy, no real doubt about how I'm going to be received - I know exactly what I’m doing as I run my hands hard over her body and pull her tight against me. As her lips part to accept my tongue I can't stop myself from groaning - God I’ve been wanting this so much, she really has no idea - and when I slide my hands greedily under the hem of her robe, my heart jumps at the sensation of warm, bare skin - no knickers, _nothing._

Oh Jesus, she makes this so easy. 

I tighten my arm around her waist and let my other hand run over the soft curve of her arse, stroking down to test how wet she is. As my fingers slide easily into her, her breath catches and she parts her thighs a bit to grant me access. I take full advantage, breaking off from kissing to whisper against her mouth,

“So how often do you do it? Think about me when you’re wanking, I mean.” The thought’s been lodged in my head since she’d planted it there earlier. She laughs a bit breathlessly.

“Quite often, actually. At least a few times a week. Though to be perfectly honest with you, I confess...” I don’t even have to see the curl of her lips as she says this, I can feel the shape of them, “I’ve even been known to think about you during sex with other people, Father. Just to get me there.”

Fucking hell. I didn’t think it was possible for me to be any more turned on, but she’s managed it. I kiss her again, fumbling to undo my belt and letting my old, well worn jeans slide off my hips and pool at my feet. She reaches immediately to help tug my pants down and free my cock, her warm grip sending an electric shiver up my spine.

“So what shall I do with this, Father?” Her beautiful dark eyes meet mine, direct and challenging, “Are you going to push me to my knees and tell me to suck you off? Or maybe...” Her brazenness is what gets to me. It was her confessed string of sexual indiscretions that got me going on the first night I gave in and kissed her, my head full of her sins as we snogged wildly against the old wooden confessional. Her outrageous sexuality taps into all the urges I’ve learned to keep so strictly repressed. The exhilaration I feel when I give in to her is a dark mirror to the peace I feel before God; like she pulls me into some sort of balance.

I shake my head at her. “No, I want your mouth free for this.” Stepping out of my jeans, I take her wrists in one hand and lead her towards the sofa. She waits as I strip off and sit down, not needing any cue to come straddle my lap as soon as I’m settled. I slip my hands under the robe again, leaning forward to lap at her clit, but she pushes me back and puts one hand firmly against my forehead.

“No, no you don’t. Not yet. I don’t want to wait.” She quickly finds my cock and pushes herself down onto it one firm, sliding movement. It happens so quickly - one minute I’m still yearning for her, the next embraced tight and hot - that I can’t stop myself from swearing loudly and blasphemously. Fucking hell, my legs are shaking. For a moment she’s completely still, watching my face as I’m recovering from the sudden rush of penetration, then she smiles boldly down at me and says teasingly, “So I’ve thought a lot about riding the living fuck out of you.”

She starts to rise up, so I grab her hips with both hands and forcibly slow her down. “Don’t you fucking dare make me come just yet.” My voice is low and hoarse. The sensation of her rising and falling on me, as slowly as I can make her, is so maddeningly good she could probably convert me to just about anything right now. 

“Getting close, Father? Have you been wanting this for a _very_ long time, then?”

“Fuck off,” I’m sweating with the effort of holding back and don’t stop to think about what I’m saying, “you fucking well know I have.” There’s a flash of triumph on her face. She pulls the tie at her waist free so her pretty tits can taunt me, just out of reach of my tongue. Watching me watch them, she whispers,

“I like to think about having you - just like this - on one of the pews in your church at night, when there’s no one there to hear you. I like to think about you...” she runs the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, “...telling me how you’ve been thinking about me all day, waiting until everyone’s gone so you can finally push my skirt up and fuck me.” Christ, I can’t help it, I’m letting her rhythm speed up as she paints her sacrilegious pictures in my head. Torn between wanting the orgasm I can feel building up and wanting to spend several hours tormenting myself by just sucking on her tits, I instead spread my fingers over as much of her arse as I can and end up with the tips of my fingers against her arsehole. She’s so slickly lubricated, between all the pent up anticipation and dirty talk, I can feel only the tiniest hint of resistance when I probe at it gently. 

Which gives me an idea. An idea of the type I’ve not let myself anywhere near in a long, long time.

I clamp her down hard on me and push up off the sofa, acting like I’m planning to lower her to the floor and plunge into her classic missionary-style, but instead when I’ve got her down on the floor I flip her over onto her belly and pin my knees on either side of hers. She freezes, and I wonder if I’m going too far. I slow down, nipping gently at the back of her neck and holding her wrists behind her back as I push my cock against arse. She is _incredibly_ wet. She's so slippery I could probably get myself off just thrusting between her tightly pressed thighs. 

That wouldn’t have anything like the effect I’m looking for, though.

I dampen my fingertips with a bit of saliva - as wet as she is, more is always better for this - and reach down to rub them against her arse opening, gently pressing and circling the way I dimly remember until she sighs and arches her back, pressing harder against me. Kneeling over her, I bend down and, my accent suddenly thicker than usual, breath into her ear, “I am incredibly tempted to fuck you up the arse right now.” 

She raises her head slightly and then chuckles, low and unbearably filthy. “Well, you’re certainly inspiring me to upgrade my wank fantasies about you, Father. Now I’ll be thinking about you in your cassock after mass, very slowly and carefully buggering me on your bed in the rectory while I try really, really hard to stay quiet...”

Christ. Every time I release a little more of my tightly suppressed, alarmingly transgressive sexuality off its leash around her, she not only meets it half way but gives it a sharp _tug._

That decides it, then. I slide against her until I’m in place, and then push forward very slowly and carefully, listening to her breathing and withdrawing every time it falters. It’s incredibly slow work - back and forth, testing and withdrawing, until I can feel her body relaxing to let me in as she moans helplessly. 

“Is this what you want?” The time and focus I’ve spent concentrating on her reactions have almost made me forget how close I’ve been to coming, but now, with her clamped tightly around me, I’m acutely aware I don’t have a lot more left in me. When she answers, her voice is high and on the edge of coming undone. 

“Oh God, yes. I... oh God, please don’t stop...” I shift my weight and plant my knees between hers, and she seizes the chance to she spread wider and draw me in even further. I let go of her wrists and she immediately slips one hand under her pelvis. From the uninhibited sounds she’s making, I’m fairly certain she’s rubbing her clit as I’m fucking her. It’s my turn to talk to her, my voice low and terse as I tell her I don’t want to come before she does, that I want to hear her getting off with her own hand beneath me while I’m pinning her hard against her floor. When I feel her clamping down hard on me, crying out helplessly and calling my name - my actual name, not my honorific - I finally give myself permission to let go, and I come and come until I’m almost weeping with the intensity of release. 

There is a long, heavy silence, broken only by our ragged breathing and the thunder of my pulse in my ears.

I slide out of her and down, pressing a soft kiss against the small of her back. She is still, one arm thrown over her head and the other still beneath her. When I move up to lie next to her, she turns her head and peers over her arm at me with one bright, mischievous eye. 

“Well, well... fucking hell, Father. You’re a bit of a dark horse.” 

I can feel myself smiling back at her, slightly abashed. “I told you I’ve tried physical relationships many, _many_ times.” 

“Yes, but there’s shagging a lot of people and then there’s _that._ And believe me, I know the difference.”

“Have you ever…”

“Been gratuitously sodomised before? You know I have, I confessed that much to you. But that was…”

“Yeah.” I know the difference, too. The enormity of what we’ve just done - not just the sex or the obvious kinks, but the intimacy of sharing them - is suddenly weighing heavily on me. Who the hell am I now? I roll onto my back and my hand brushes against my jeans, still crumpled where I’d dropped them. For Gods sake, I’m still only a few feet from her sodding front door. The thought bursts out of me as soon as I think it: “Now what are we going to do?”

She props herself up on one elbow for a moment, then leans over and kisses me gently on the cheek. “Well, right now I’m going to move to the enormous, comfortable bed over in the next room,” she looks at me carefully, her face studiedly neutral. “You’re welcome to join me if you like.”

For a long moment, we hold each other’s gaze. Then I nod and brush my fingers against her cheek. “Yeah. Okay.”

There’s no point in trying to find something to wear. We curl up naked in her bed, her long, slender body pressed tightly against me, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait on this. Real life has been busy, and I've been toying with priest corruption levels.


	4. Chapter 4

Pam knows something’s up. 

I’m at the table in the back room, writing an introduction for the parish newsletter while she’s sorting through prayer books, and when I glance up I catch her looking me pensively. Oh God, is it that obvious? I can feel my face starting to burn. What if my actions are actually detectable on my face? Not so much a scarlet letter as a big, indelible black mark. 

I’d made my way back to the rectory with a pint of milk and packet of biscuits, angling to be read as returning from an early errand instead of completing a walk of shame. Pam wouldn’t have seen me slip out last night, so she wouldn’t necessarily realise these particular clothes have spent the night on someone’s floor. Oh yes, I’ve been thinking of every angle. I’ve lined up excuses, plausible denials, reasonable explanations - the works. I have an answer for lots of different types of prying questions. This is the me I’d thought I’d successfully escaped.

God help me, I still love sex. I used to try to get lost in it every chance I could, my inhibitions melting away leaving nothing but the drive for pure, animalistic pleasure. I loved finding out what buttons to press, how to drive someone insane with wanting me. I _craved_ it. I can feel that craving eating away at me again now, niggling at me and my efforts to shove it back down.

This feeling is familiar. I am so into the night before, but the hangovers can be fucking awful.

“Are you alright, Father?”

“Yeah, yeah - well. Not feeling a hundred percent actually. I might go for a lie down.” I can feel myself smiling weakly, my palms dampening.

When I’ve escaped and made it safely to my room, I root out the emergency vodka from the back of my wardrobe and take a long, cleansing swig. _Oh my God, oh my God. What am I doing?_

I came to the church because I’d had enough of myself. I was tired of fucking my way through people without a second thought. Desire was what I wanted - that heady feeling when you want someone so much you’d do anything to have them. When you push and push and take risks to get them. The fulfilment of getting what you’ve been anticipating, when everything you’ve imagined is made sweatily real - I’ve spent far too many years looking for that in dozens of bodies, only to find after orgasm I've nothing to say and am desperate for a drink.

I’m painfully grateful I’ve missed the rise of hook up app culture. I’d have flamed out years ago if that had been an option. Instead I’ve been happy and peaceful, and really enjoying this quiet life of being a father to many. So… why is this happening now? Why with her? It’s not like she’s the only attractive person I’ve run into over the years since I started on this path. But this... I just can’t seem to stop thinking about her. Flirting with her, bantering with her... and definitely having having sex with her.

One small scrape of hope; this morning wasn’t actually awkward or weird. I had a shower, she joined me in it, there was a _lot_ of soap, and afterwards we had sex again on towels thrown across her bed, slowly and indulgently and without any of the pyrotechnics of the night before. I’d even kissed her before I left - sweetly, even a bit tenderly.

Jekyll and Hyde have nothing on me. Come to think about it, maybe I’m having a breakdown? Maybe this is what a breakdown feels like.

My phone buzzes. It’s _her._ My heart jumps.

“Hey, you left your socks here. Do you want me to drop them round to you?” 

Oh God, she can’t come here. I don't think I can take it, not after what we were talking about us doing in these buildings. “No don’t worry, I’ll meet you halfway. How about the bus stop near your dad’s?”

“You mean the one you like to dump me at?”

 _Uggh -_ a familiar prickle of shame. “Okay, maybe not there. The park maybe? Where I saw you yesterday.” I can’t believe it’s only been 24 hours since I jumped straight from the frying pan into the glowing heart of the fifty megaton nuclear explosion.

“Yeah okay. I can’t come until I’ve closed the cafe though. So… see you there at six?”

“Six then.” I’ve just typed “sex.” Great. This is a clearly a really good idea.

“Great. See you then. xx”

Fuck.


	5. Chapter 5

At half five I’m on my way to the park when she messages to tell me the Met Office has issued a thunderstorm warning, so meeting on a bench under a tree may not be the cleverest idea. I glance up at the ominously darkening sky and have to concede her point. All this humidity has to break some time, and if it’s going to be this afternoon we probably don’t want to be out in it. Her perfectly reasonable suggestion is that I come straight to her at the cafe. 

I stand in the middle of the pavement for a good few minutes, staring at her message and weighing up what I should do. The last time I was in her quirky, slightly shabby, oddly guinea pig-heavy cafe - the only time I’ve been there, actually - I’d tried to get her to talk about herself. She’d rebuffed me pretty firmly, only to turn up at the church late in the evening after I’d spent several hours drinking and obsessing over whatever was so obviously bothering her. By time she appeared in the back room like a luminous apparition, I was fully prepared to believe I’d somehow managed to summon her to me. And as for the infamous confessional ... well, later as I lay awake I stewed for ages over how quickly I’d acquiesced to her hands searching out my belt buckle under my cassock. Not just a kiss on my part then, not just a heady indiscretion - in a heartbeat I’d gone from comfort and protection to eagerly consenting to her nimble fingers slipping into my trousers. If He’d not warned me off... sometimes I wish He’d kept out of it actually, because whatever might have happened couldn’t possibly invade my dreams as relentlessly as the possibilities have.

I don’t actually need the bloody socks back. I should turn away from her, like I did when the painting fell, and I should tell her to stay away and get out of my head. But being honest now, I don’t want to. My peace is gone and I’ve singularly failed to get it back. I’ve already spent most of this afternoon thinking about those long, quiet hours in her bed when I was pressed against her back with my face buried in her hair, committing the feeling and scent of her to memory. And now it’s taken just one text for my traitorous libido to drop the pretence of a grown up chat on a public bench to greedily imagining my trousers pooled round my ankles in an empty cafe and its red-lipped proprietor on her knees before me.

“Yeah sure,” I type back. “But I can’t stay long, I have things to do.” That don’t involve sex, I know she’ll read between the lines. Hopefully she’ll show restraint for the both of us.

****

The thunder is rumbling and the closed sign is up when I arrive, but the door has been left unlocked. I find her wiping down tables with a pinny over one of her appealingly tiny tea dresses and a handkerchief tied over her dark curls. She is undeniably lovely. Between her vintage styling, my dog collar and the genteelly shabby state of the cafe, a casual observer might think us a throwback to a much earlier London.

“Hey, you made it.” Her smile is bright and relaxed. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to take the storm as a divine intervention or not.” I smile weakly at the joke, both pleased and alarmed to find she’s as unnervingly close as ever to guessing at every bump and crack pitting the surface of my soul. Like the evening she turned up at the rectory with her G&Ts, her wisecracks have an unerring ability to snap straight to my fault lines.

“I’m turning over a new leaf. Trying not to blame other people every time He points out I’m being a dick.”

“Sensible position for a man of the cloth, really. Cuppa? I’ve made a fresh pot.”

“I wouldn’t say no.” I take a chair and wrap my fingers nervously around the seat beneath me, looking around the cafe and spying Hilary curled peacefully in her hutch in a puff of golden fur. I’m sounding pretty normal, I’m pleased to note. As the cup is set down in front of me I feel a rush of warmth racing through me, like a thousand tiny plants tilting towards the sun. Her pale, slender arm is close enough for me to lean forward and press my lips to it. 

I don’t. Instead I thank her and take a quick, edge-of-scalding sip, grateful for something to do with my hands. She walks to the door and locks the world out, then drops into the chair next to me, all long fawn-like legs and huge velvet eyes. 

“Why,” I blurt spontaneously, “...do you have to be so bloody beautiful?” Her startled laugh barely delays her deflecting quip:

“Why thank you, Father. But I bet you say that to all the parishioners.”

I smile, but shake my head at her. “No, strangely I don’t. And thank goodness for that, or I’d have been defrocked and thrown out years ago.” 

“You’re not entirely adverse to the occasional defrocking, though.” I can feel myself blushing uncomfortably at the truth of it and have to look away. “What I don’t quite get, though, is how you can sit there and tell me that you’re meant to be a father to many, and then suddenly roll out that kind of sexual talent. It's like Martina Navratilova campaigning against tennis.”

She is ridiculous, and I can’t help but chuckle even as I rebut her point. “Martina’s tennis has brought joy to many. My sexual history isn’t nearly so glorious.”

“It’s been pretty fucking glorious from where I’m sitting. Or trying to sit, anyway.” An edge of sincerity creeps into her ribaldry, “Last night was...” she trails off, shaking her head with that slightly zoned out expression that makes me want to lunge across the table and kiss her until I’ve pulled her back. Instead I wrap my hands back around the edges of my seat and wait for her, rocking forward slightly until her eyes refocus. 

“That’s part of what I mean, though. I am not supposed to be physical with anyone at all, let alone…”

“You mean you’re not supposed to be really, really good at it.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“So being a world-class shag is fine as long as you never use your superpower?”

“Oh fuck off, that’s beside…”

“No it’s NOT.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard her raise her voice so sharply before. It startles me into silence, and I sit back as she leans in closer. “It’s bloody not beside the point. Jesus Christ, do you know how many people I’ve slept with? How many things I’ve tried? And nothing… I mean really, nothing has been as good as you. Last night was absolutely fucking transcendent, and you’re going to sit there and tell me it’s all a mistake? Fuck you then, and fuck your God and fuck His twisted sense of humour.” Her eyes are dark and furious. She bites her lower lip, staring at me with an expression that’s almost feral, then she leans forward and kisses me.

My body freezes and my hands clamp harder around the seat, but I can feel my blood rising as my head falls back and I part my lips for her tongue. The kiss lengthens and deepens, lightning crackling along my nerve endings and pulling the smallest, softest sound of longing from my throat. She breaks away and pulls back, leaving me panting as she takes in the contrast of my tilted head and half-closed eyes with my stiff posture and clamped hands. Her eyes gleam with sudden insight.

“You want me to force this, don’t you? You want me to _make_ you do this so it’s not your fault.” Her hand drops abruptly, finding my erection already bunched uncomfortably in my trousers. She gently explores the outline of it with her finger tips, using just enough pressure to make my toes curl as she cups her hand around my crotch. “God, I want to do something about this so much it’s nearly killing me.” She sits back abruptly, pulling her hand away and crossing her arms firmly. “So… NO. No way. I’m not going to play into this. I don’t know how the fuck you can experience that and not want to go straight back again as long as it’s there, but I don’t work that way and I’m sure as hell not going to force you to _service_ me.” 

“I don’t want to blame you, I just…” I trail off, not even sure what I’m trying to say to her.

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“Do you need me to point out that I’ve stayed away from you, and from your bloody church, just like you told me to? I’m not the one who turned up after insisting all this was all going to fucking pass.”

“Oh c’mon, you were pretty provocative in the park yesterday.”

“Well you’re clearly depraved enough to find my really quite mild provocation irresistible.” The absurdity of this suddenly makes me laugh out loud. Surprised, the anger drains out of her face as she watches me laugh helplessly, and then she smiles back sheepishly. “What?”

“Just… I can’t believe you think that was a mild provocation. Fucking hell, woman. That was much worse than talking about your tits at a Quaker meeting.”

She’s starting to laugh back at me. “What was so bad about what I said at the meeting? I said they were small…”

“I’d been celibate for nearly a fucking decade, honest to God it really doesn’t take a lot to get me thinking about what I want to do to you. Jesus,” my vision is starting to blur slightly, “Do you have any idea how terrifying this is to me? I thought I had myself under control, but now…”

“You idiot.” She’s shaking her head at me, frowning again. “Oh course the sex has been brain-meltingly good, but the whole point is that I fucking love you. That’s why it’s so good. Why the hell are you so focused only wanting love if it doesn’t come with sex?”

I stare at her. For a moment, I consider telling her everything - every sad, sordid detail from my not inconsiderable back catalogue - and then I look around at the cafe and snap back,

“So are you going to tell me about Boo?”

“How do you…?” And just like that, the shutters slam down behind her eyes and she leaps to her feet. “I think you’ve been here long enough now.”

“Fine.” I get up and wipe at my mouth just in case her lips have left their mark there.

“Fine.” She turns back to the counter and away from me, resting her hands on it and letting her head fall forward. I go to open the door, remember she’s locked it only a split second after I’ve rattled it ineffectively, then turn to look at her stiffly resentful back as I undo the latch. “Well… bye then.”

“Fuck you,” her voice is a bit muffled.

It’s only when I’m halfway down the street, walking away as fast as I can in the pouring rain without breaking into a run, that I remember I didn’t actually get my damned socks.

***

At nearly midnight, a few drinks to the wind, I give up the pretence of trying to sleep and message her. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t set out to upset you today.” There’s a long pause. I’d almost given up and lay back down in the dark when my screen flashes up:

“You’re making a bit of a habit of late nights, aren’t you?”

“I’m not doing so well with a few of my better habits, truth be told. This afternoon being a case in point.” There’s another pause. Then:

“Fine. I’ll tell you about Boo. But only if you come here.” There it is. It’s a direct challenge, and I know that if she tells me the full story I’ll have to tell her how I ended up here and why I’m so scared that our explosive attraction is going to unravel me completely. Not to mention what usually happens when we meet up late at night.

“Okay. I’m on my way.” When I dress, I put my dog collar back on - it’s important, it’s the reason why I’m still on this earth today even if I’m doing a terrible job of honouring it’s promise right now - and I creep out of the rectory as silently as I can to face the deluge.

Here we fucking go.


End file.
